


Vivid as Breath, Immediate as Air

by TheBitterKitten



Series: In a Cuban Sea [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Fluff and Angst, HannibaLibre, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Idiots in Love, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Sassy Will Graham, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter in Cuba, a vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26803897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBitterKitten/pseuds/TheBitterKitten
Summary: It's early days in Cuba, and Will comes to a decision.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter
Series: In a Cuban Sea [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975105
Comments: 8
Kudos: 76





	Vivid as Breath, Immediate as Air

The pervasive tropical heat of Cuba feels like home, which is right. He had grown used to this kind of heat in his youth; a damp and smothering blanket somewhere above ninety degrees. Now, it feels like fate, if he believed in such a thing. He’s always been more comfortable in the heat than the snow.

Hannibal isn’t faring nearly so well, even with his linen suits and near-constant showers. Will almost doesn’t have the heart to tell him that sweat is human— Hannibal was sweating in Abigail’s kitchen and he’ll sweat here— but Will doesn’t mind. He rather likes the experience of Hannibal’s showers: the first sounds of water rushing against tile, ringing clear until the body steps between them; the sudden draught of lemongrass, ylangylang and tomato leaf scenting the air from his body wash. The relaxation that comes with the scent; Will can let his own limbs slacken with it, if he focuses. The cutoff of the water like an exhale. The faint rustle of cotton towelling limbs. The shuffle of clothes enveloping damp skin by inches. More importantly, a freshly-composed Hannibal’s satisfied posture as he strolls back into the living room with every hair in its place. Will feels Hannibal looking down at him where he’s sprawled bonelessly across the sofa. Will doesn’t look back, eyes shut. They _are_ still fighting, after all. Not even over anything in particular, just sniping and jabbing at each other like it’s sport.

Six airy rooms. A bathroom, two bedrooms, the kitchen, the dining room, and the living room off that. All on one level, something like a lopsided star or a smile with the kitchen as the center. They can’t get out from under each other here; high, arching ceilings with more window than wall to hold them up. Sound carries everywhere, swirling as it does from Hannibal’s inexplicable piano in the not-quite corner of the room, or from movement in the kitchen. The turn of a page in a bedroom, the shifting of a mattress. Somehow it feels like they never really left the house on the bluff. Maybe that’s why they’re always fighting.

“You’ll feel better if you take a bath,” Hannibal suggests, carefully solicitous; a tenuous peace offering.

“I was thinking we should go down to the beach, but you just showered instead,” Will replies, baiting him but half-heartedly, gaze drifting carelessly over the other man until it returns, listless, to the ceiling. 

A pause, calculating.

“We can go down to the beach if you want, Will,” it's still solicitous, but there's an edge, again.

Another pause, and Will turns his gaze to Hannibal. This time, he meets the other’s eyes, a challenge in his own.

“Let’s.”

Hannibal follows Will down the hall to their bedrooms. They change into swim shorts, the rustle of clothing filling the air between open doors. Colorful towels hug their hips or drape over an arm. They amble across sparse grass gradually swallowed by sand to where the waves lap against a long stretch of lonely beach. Here, it’s easy to think nothing else in the world exists; that nothing exists beyond the man beside him and the susurration of the waves. He tastes the salt in the air.

Will decides Hannibal will have to break first this time. He lays out his towel by the other’s before he wades into the surf without a look back. It’s probably not the best idea, with the sun burning low and hot near the horizon and the water darkening beneath him, but Will can’t find it in himself to care. He’s full of a buzzing, needling, useless energy and he has to get it out. 

Ever since they got here, they’ve been circling each other, pushing each other; toeing the line of physical violence. Each trying to feel the other out without giving up anything in return. The unity of purpose and mind that bound them as they killed the Dragon lasted until it became clear they wouldn’t die from blood loss or infection or pneumonia. It stayed as they grew well enough to travel. Got them through traveling, right up until they had to face the rest of their lives. Will honestly can’t tell where he ends and Hannibal begins, wonders if Hannibal feels any clearer than this. If the dark thoughts of betrayal and abandonment floating around are his own paranoia or the other’s planning.

He wades until the water comes to his chest and then starts to swim hard, lets himself relax and breathe when his head breaks the surface. 

It’s a powerful sense memory, being in water these past few months. Memory of hurtling down, no thought in his head but the warm body in his arms until they hit the yielding concrete of water. Arms holding him, suddenly limp, then gone entirely. Grasping underwater for hair, a limb. Finding it, clutching. Kicking desperately for the white light blurred on the stinging surface. Swallowing water, coughing, swallowing more. Dizzy with blood in his eyes and dead weight dragging him down. Disoriented in the noise and motion all around him. Get his head above water. Get the other’s. Eyes closed. Breathing, bubbles on the surface as proof. Dead man’s float for both, at least until there’s more air than water in their lungs. Vomits blood and sea water. Tries to avoid it. Doesn’t matter.Kicking, kicking. Endless treading. Every movement is burning, is rending pain threatening to seize him and sink him. Fights the surf, fights against waves pulling them back and back and back from shore. Breathing hurts, feels like needles, feels like ice. Can’t feel much at all. Vision darkens, or maybe it’s the moon drawing a cloud over herself. Everything is black or white. Something solid just beneath his toes. Beneath the balls of his bare feet, shoes lost sometime before. Sharp rocks, but he pushes on, arm in a death grip around the chest beside him. Pushes on, feels his foot give in a way that it shouldn’t. The flesh parts, but there’s no pain— hasn’t been any in a while, maybe hours. Keeps on. The farther he gets out of the water, the harder it is to keep going. The weight of the air presses him down. Maybe they should stay, let the water take them to some nameless place beyond thought or reason. Vomits to the side, up his nose, down his front. It’s just black and white and sour in the moonlight, indistinguishable from the water surrounding them. Drags them farther, on his knees—can’t get to his feet— takes a wave to the face and loses his grip on the man beside him. Senses something come loose in the stabbed shoulder as he pulls the other close. Drags them until the watery hands grasping them have no strength to pull them back. Breathes what sounds like ragged sucking pulls, looks at the still face beneath him. Thumps the chest, recovery position, another thump, a flood. Looks again. Pinches the nose and seals the mouth with his own. Hand laces into the fringe at the forehead, tips the head back. Has to cover his own cheek to get the air to go in. A god breathing life into his creation. Again, again, and again, until he feels an answering breath against his lips. Another and a third, steadier, before he lifts his head away. Meets the eyes. Falls.

“Will—“

It’s very far away, only just registering in his consciousness. The voice calling his name has been shouting for a while, he realises. The water around him is cool, but not the just-melted ice of his reverie. Will turns to wave in return, orients himself to the tiny figure waving with both arms above his head from the distant shore, barely visible against the purples and livid reds of the dying twilight. The danger strikes him then and he wonders if he’ll make it back. 

He’s suddenly so cold.

Will starts to swim, limbs already burning with fatigue. He shouldn’t have done this, shouldn’t have gotten lost and swam this far out— at least a mile, maybe more from shore, and in the evening. Panic threatens to well up and seize him, the only recently-healed muscles in his shoulder threaten to cramp, so instead he focuses on the dim figure now wading into the surf. Puts his head down and works. He finds his mind quieting, pointing in survival instinct to one purpose, finds almost nothing but the rhythm of swimming, of breath, of making it back. 

Then hands grasp him tightly, scorching in their heat against his wet and trembling flesh, hoist him upright in the shallows at their waists. He has no energy to stand— slips down when he’s placed on his feet— so he’s held. He shakes against the man holding him as he sucks in great heaving gasping breaths. Listens to the roar of his own blood, the low soothing murmurs reverberating in his ear pressed against Hannibal’s chest, the call of the waves. Will feels the hot caress of the hand smoothing wet hair away from his face.

He can’t speak for breathing, is only distantly connected to his body. But he’s so wonderfully clear, now, understands how to fix this. Feels himself lifted, feels the sway of Hannibal’s gait as he carries him back to the house. Drifts in the worry and taut stress of the other man, the... fear? 

He finds himself on the sofa. Once he’s steadier, Hannibal leaves him for a moment. He talks aloud from the kitchen to reassure Will he’s still there, and returns carrying a plate and a tall glass of water. He practically shoves the food into Will’s hands, watches Will raise it to his mouth and eat. It’s fairy bread. Even as he is, Will can’t resist lifting a brow at the choice. But it’s desperately sweet, and fluffy, and good for shock; their homemade bread lashed with melted butter and vanilla-cinnamon-sugar crusting the top.After he finishes, Hannibal carries Will to the bath. Will feels like he should protest and try to walk under his own steam, but the truth is he’s still half-paralyzed with exhaustion and overexertion, wishes for ibuprofen. So he’s quiet, watches the other man, sifts through his emotions. The anxiety of earlier is still present, but lessened, warmed by the purpose of caretaking. Hannibal settles him gently enough on the rim of the tub.

Hannibal focuses on drawing the bath, adding salts and fragrance and oils. When he’s finished, Will has recovered enough to strip stiffly, jerks his shorts down by inches and lowers himself gracelessly into the heat. A moan escapes him before he can bite it back. He considers letting the silence drag on, but he realises he doesn’t want to. If he has to break first, so be it.

“How are you feeling, Will?” Hannibal has withdrawn, by the cold way he holds his shoulders and the careful blankness of his face. He’s present in body only, focusing on the state of the other’s body. Will doesn’t like it, has flashes of a table in Italy. Pushes it away.

“I can see us more clearly now,” he says, taking a breath before he continues, “Join me. ...Please.”

Hannibal stills, before he looks at Will with a sharpness that Will doesn’t shy away from. 

“You’ll feel better if you take a bath,” he coaxes, just a ghost of a smile. The same peace offering, picked up, dusted off, held out. 

Hannibal gives him a little tilt of his head, considering, and takes it. He stands, pulling off his shorts and Will makes room for him in the tub. 

Privacy between them was lost to the sea when they fell, traded for a casual physical intimacy. They’ve been naked around each other, slept in the same bed for proximity when their injuries were more pressing, then for the habit and comfort of warm skin against their own. They’d treated each other’s wounds, had seen each other half-delirious with pain or fever; a few bare inches of skin was nothing. And if the air warmed between them, and their hands lingered on the other where they washed, if showers took longer than they had to, and if, occasionally, one or the other disappeared shortly thereafter for a varying length of time, it wasn’t discussed. Just understood.

Will could still see Hannibal’s face when, after a particularly vicious argument, Will had snarled that he’d rather shower alone and he’d make up the other bed for the night. It was the same expression Hannibal wore when he’d asked Will if it was good to see him.Will had wanted to take it back, right then, but he couldn’t give up ground. So they were stuck circling each other, never touching.

It was during one of the first weeks in Cuba, and Will disagreed that Hannibal should get both his choice of car and a motorcycle besides, while Will would have to settle for sharing the car (at least at first) so they didn’t attract too much attention from their closest town and the import docks. Words had been thrown about kept men and equals and rhetorical questions asked about walking through open doors. 

Will watches Hannibal gracefully settle into the bathwater, lets his gaze fall over him, lets his legs lean against the other. It’s the first deliberate touch on his part since that fight,  _the _ fight, and it feels significant.He wonders idly if the enormous bath was a selling point when Hannibal bought the place or installed sometime after.

“If I had known the prospect of  _ropa vieja_ again would make you walk into the sea, I’d have made something else,” Hannibal says, only half-joking, trying to feel out the reason for Will’s actions earlier. At least he’s present, now. The fear he’s been feeling clicks into place.

“It… wasn’t that, what you’re thinking. What it looked like, I guess. I wasn’t trying to- to leave. I hadn’t meant to go that far out. I just got lost in my head,” Will reassures him, and the slight sag of relief in Hannibal’s shoulders feels like progress.

“What did you get lost in?” Another head tilt, genuine curiosity.

“That night. After we fell.”

Hannibal nods, letting Will explain in his own time. Will takes a deep breath. 

“You and I, Hannibal, are so intricately meshed that separation would kill us both. And yet, we are distinct enough that we are at each other’s mercy. There’s just enough doubt between us to… to misread the situation and do something drastic, do something we can’t come back from.I-- threw us over, not because I didn’t want it, but because I couldn’t bear the thought of you stepping away from me on the cliff. Better that we should go over together as we were, and meet… meet death, or meet this new life, but it would be together. It would be us. I chose you permanently, that way. So I’m removing the doubt, Hannibal. I still feel like that. I always will. If you’re planning something to change that... if you don’t want us anymore, so be it. Just save yourself the trouble and kill us both now.” Will is unflinching, face set. His hand finds Hannibal’s calf at his side, and he holds it loosely against his palm, his fingers flexing against the flesh underneath them.

It’s a long moment before Hannibal speaks, something terribly delicate and new plainly readable on his face, like the fresh pink skin of a scar. There’s a waver in his voice he doesn’t try to hide. 

“Dear Will,” he breathes, “My clever boy.”

They’re at opposite ends of the tub, leaning in.It seems impossible, except for the sloshing water, for them to now be so tangled together. For Hannibal’s thighs to be interlaced with his own. Impossible for Hannibal’s bulk to be pressed against him, arm braced against the lip of the bath by Will’s head, for Hannibal’s hand to be so gently holding Will’s face. Will pulls Hannibal closer by the hair and crushes their mouths together in a searing kiss. 

He wonders why exactly they’ve never done this, why they’ve wasted so much time, before the world such as it is drops away. All that exists is his mouth, his tongue in Hannibal’s mouth and their arms around each other clinging for dear life. Will makes a sound he’s never heard himself make before.

They shift, resettling more comfortably against the porcelain of the tub, as close as they can get. Will loses himself to the wet press of lips against skin and he sucks deeply against Hannibal’s throat, leaves marks. He moves across his other’s jaw and down to his collarbones sharp as his cheeks before he must return, licks into the sweet treasure of his parted lips, meets the lush wet velvet of his tongue. Will lets himself grasp greedy handfuls of flank, of side, and he stops questioning what’s him and what’s Hannibal. He feels himself claimed; his throat, his hip where it joins his thigh, where it’s pushed out to the side and allows Hannibal the pleasure of his intimate skin. He arches up, presses his chest against the broad and answering heat of his other. His fingertips graze the pebbled scars along Hannibal’s back. Water sloshes as their bodies grind together, seeking friction, seeking yet more closeness. Hands grope in the tenebrous wetness, finding mutual purchase. They stroke in synchronous rhythm, each the other gasping into the open mouth before him. It’s all one voraciously delicious feedback loop spiraling and spiraling before Will remembers where they are. He stills, loosens his grip, opens his eyes. After a moment, Hannibal looks down at him. His other’s gaze is so mirthful and lust-dark that Will loses his train of thought for a long stretch of seconds before he remembers. 

“I’m not scrubbing out the tub,” he murmurs .

Hannibal regards Will. The man looking down at him with his fringe in his eyes is light and air and color personified. He smiles. 

“You really do worry too much.”

Will would have him then, laughs warm and low. He settles back into the thick heat and basks in the illiterate and welcome fire of it all, shutting his eyes to breathe in but deeply the ylangylang and bergamot, naked want and tomato leaves and oak of them. He marvels at how alive he feels, turned to the sun.

Hannibal rolls his hips, claiming his attention, and Will closes his fist, moving in tandem. The man above him groans, a throaty, uncontrolled sound, and Will is so wonderfully airy. He sighs, arching, pushes into the tight curve of Hannibal’s hand, drags back against the thigh firmly pressed between his own. Everything is dripping honey and damask roses but it’s not enough.Another crush together is too much and he feels and  _feels_ Hannibal in the same place, right here with him, and he grits his teeth, buries his face in the crook of Hannibal’s neck. He holds on tightly as they buck and rut against each other, see each other through so much bliss it’s nearly pain, fizzing white sea foam crashing over all. 

He’s jelly, mouthing idly against Hannibal’s chest, doesn’t release him from the tangle of their legs. He is edgeless, one smooth expanse of rich and rippling satin.Hannibal’s head is hung low, mouth parted. He’s sunk against Will, hasn’t picked his weight up yet, though Will hasn’t given him room to. He radiates such sublime satisfaction that Will tilts his nose to his other’s throat and inhales, scenting him, wanting to preserve this moment in the faultless vaults of his memory. 

Hannibal stills, gives him a bright pleased glance and a breathless little murmur of a laugh. He hesitates, about to question him, but settles for purring, “The water will get cold in a minute.”

“So take me to bed.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know fairy bread is traditionally made with sprinkles/jimmies/hundreds and thousands, but Hannibal would rather actually die and pass from this earth before allowing them into his kitchen.


End file.
